Ways in Which Cornelius Fudge Meets an Untimely Demise

Ways in Which Cornelius Fudge Meets an Untimely Demise

#33 Mr Weasley's car runs him over. Again. And Again. And Again.

Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic, was not having a good day. In terms of 'worst days of his life', this day ranked well within the top five, and that included the time Dolores refused to return his owls as well as when he was forced to wear an orange tutu with pink sequins, so it had some pretty stiff competition. In his opinion, the tutu would have suited him much better if it had been lime-green and perhaps studded with fluorescent yellow sequins - then it would have matched his bowler hat.

[I feel I must note here that Cornelius Fudge's level of fashion sense has never been proven, and to this day he refuses to listen to anything to the contrary.]

Nevertheless, this particular day was growing steadily worse. To start off with, Fudge was in the Forbidden Forest. Secondly, he was running. More to the point, he was in the Forbidden Forest and running for his life.

Tripping slightly, he automatically grabbed for his bowler hat, which threatened to fly off his head from the force. He'd already been running for close to twenty minutes and was panting terribly, his face tomato red from the exertion.

Maybe if I close my eyes, this'll all go away, he thought desperately. Of course, the git had forgotten he was running over tree roots, as well as an assortment of other earthy obstacles that would cause a delay in his sprint to freedom, and thus actually tripped over a very pronounced tree root. Consequently, he was attacked by the Bowtruckles inhabiting the tree. Frantically fighting off the Bowtruckles, who were clawing at him like there was no tomorrow, gnashing their pointy little teeth menacingly, Fudge peered over his shoulder to see if closing his eyes had achieved the desired effect. No such luck. He immediately jumped up and began to run again, two stray Bowtruckles still clinging onto his robes.

But let's backtrack a bit.

Fudge's day had originally proceeded as normal. Or as normal as it could be, not forgetting who we are considering here! However, on this stormy morning at the Ministry (Magical Maintenance were threatening to strike if they weren't given another pay rise), Fudge received a very odd owl from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry:

Minister Fudge,

We are but a thousand eager young minds at this esteemed school, and we feel we must bring to your attention that (there was something heavily scribbled out here, but from what Fudge could make out, it read you are a complete git. However, he was sure that it was just his mind playing tricks on him and read on) under your care, this school has become better than it could possibly ever be, and we, the students of Hogwarts, would like to honour you personally at a small ceremony this afternoon. That is, of course, if you can fit it into your busy schedule of making the Wizarding World a better place. We are holding the ceremony at 3pm in the heart of the Forbidden Forest.

Yours,

The Students of Hogwarts

And in smaller print:

Written by H. Granger, on behalf of the Anti-Fudge movement of Dumbledore's Army.

But of course, no one reads the fine print and our Fudge was no exception.

Well, this letter certainly made Fudge feel very proud indeed! He proceeded to strut impressively around the Ministry like a peacock in mating season. What he didn't realise was that the letter was bewitched so the reader was in fact transfigured into a peacock - in this case, a very large peacock with horrible lime-green feathers haloing its head. This was Fred and George's new product - Peacock Parchment, selling for 5 Galleons for 10 sheets. Fortunately, Fudge never noticed the snickers from all around, having an in-built embarrassment defector, an ancient legacy within the Fudge family. The spell soon wore off, anyhow. It never crossed his mind during the course of the day how odd it was to hold a ceremony in the heart of the Forbidden Forest. Evidently, the fact it was forbidden had skipped his attention and gone on an exciting holiday in the Caribbean.

At last, the portable office clock on his desk gently nudged him, intoning in a low female voice, 'It's five to three, Mr Minister.' Glancing at the clock, he once again asked himself why he'd chosen a picture of his wife to decorate the clock face; it had seemed such a novel idea at the time, but now it felt as though her eyes were on him at all times. It made him uncomfortable, especially whenever he became intimate with his hat.

[Author's note: Get out of the gutter, you people with dirty minds. His wife didn't approve of his hat purchasing as a rule and because almost ferocious when he bought hat grooming products. How are you supposed to become intimate with a hat for goodness sake??? No, if you have an answer, I do not want to know.]

He hurriedly scribbled his signature on several documents that looked suspiciously like ballot forms for the upcoming Ministerial elections and leapt to his feet, Apparating before you could say, 'Dangerous Dai'.

A moment later, he arrived at the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest, where he was found and greeted by scores of cheering, black robed students. No teachers in sight, however. How odd, he thought. Oh well, I suppose this is just a student function after all! The moment they spotted him, the students all gathered around, until they were pushed out of the way by a very anxious-looking Ginny Weasley.

'Coming through, coming through! There's a schedule to keep. Hey, move over, Dean, I have to get through!'

After much pushing and shoving, she finally made her way to Fudge, who was all but overwhelmed by the welcome he was receiving. Never before in his life, well, apart from winning Witch Weekly's Best Decorated Hat Competition, had he ever been greeted with such enthusiasm. This is how the famous must feel, Fudge thought dreamily.

'Good afternoon, Minister Fudge,' Ginny said cheerily.

'Oh, hello there. You're Arthur Weasley's girl, aren't you?'

'Yes, Minister. Now, if you could please come this way, I'll be taking you to the ceremony.' She took hold of the sleeve of his pinstripe robes and began to tug them, encouraging him to follow her.

'But what about all the students ...?' he asked feebly, all of a sudden unsure of himself.

'Oh, don't worry, Minister, they'll be following us in,' she reassured. She smiled sweetly at him, melting his resolve in a similar way to the Wicked Witch of the West in a pool, without the shrieks of 'I'm melting ... melting', of course, and he followed her into the depths of the dark, gloomy Forest.

Lighting the tip her wand with a quick spell as the woods grew darker around them, Ginny motioned for the Minister to walk faster.

'We'll be there shortly, Minister. Not too far now.'

But that was thirty minutes ago, and Fudge was slowly growing weary, his former excitement now dying. A small creeping feeling within him doubted that the ceremony would even exist, but he pushed the thought away derisively. Why else would they have written to him if they didn't adore him? Everyone loved him; he was Minister for Magic! He heard an odd sound, like a twig snapping, to his right, and jumped in fright, waking from his thoughts.

'Crack!'

'Wh - Who's there?' he whispered, looking around him wildly. 'Ouch!' he cried as he snagged his sleeve on a particularly sharp branch overhead. 'Damn!' he hissed. 'That was an original Colin Rose! There goes 500 Galleons down the drain.' Fussing over the torn sleeve, he inspected the stinging wound on his forearm. The cut was deep, and he tried to stem the blood flow, listening intently for any sound. Silence. He turned to continue following Arthur's girl, but for some strange reason she was nowhere to be found.

[The Author would like to say that no harm came to Ginny Weasley in the writing of this story. She had inadvertently fallen into a large plot hole, and found herself surrounded by four small men, two big men, an elf, a dwarf, a wizard and a large cave troll with bad body odour. Needless to say, a lot of fun was coming her way.]

The fear he had been trying to tame ever since he stepped foot into the forest now jumped forward at the sound of the starter gun and was at running full speed down the track. Panicking outwardly now, his knees began to shake and his teeth began to chatter. He didn't like the look of this.

'Crack!'

His ears pricked as a second broken twig-like noise came from his left. Hesitantly, he turned to face whatever monster the Forest held, his wand outstretched in front of him, although his hand was shaking madly. He was on the verge of loosing all bladder control. There was a whooshing noise and a high pitched yell, and all of a sudden he was surrounded. His hair stood on end as he took in the scores of giant spiders, a group of about fifteen centaurs, led by a bearded black-haired one he heard another one refer to as 'Bane', a giant, who Fudge reckoned to be pushing sixteen feet, as well as a herd of horrifying-looking winged horses that seemed to be fleshless, yet covered with a black hide, stood before him. His bladder gave way.

[I might pause in the narration of this story for a moment to point out that those fleshless horses were indeed Thestrals. In what is an interesting tale, Fudge witnessed the death of a second cousin, who, in an extremely foolish action, had grabbed hold of a Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch (there were two in existence) and, as being a git runs in the family, foolishly counted to five before letting go of the grenade. Well, 'letting go' of it is a bit of a lie as he never actually managed to fling it; it simply exploded in his face. But as I have said, that is another story.]

Now, what was I saying? Oh yes, Fudge saw the Thestrals, although he didn't know what they were, never having come across them before in his life. He looked around bewildered, from the gnashing of Acromantulan pincers, to the steely-eyed glares and the sharp arrows of the centaurs, and finally to the nightmarish Thestrals, who were sniffing the air, obviously attracted to the blood flowing down Fudge's arm. Oh, and I almost forgot, a small white rabbit who happened to be visiting distant cousins that day decided to hop along for the ride. It was quite excited, and couldn't wait for the fun to begin. It had heard a lot about the overly large human whom other humans referred to as the 'git'.

Fudge ran.

And now, twenty minutes later, these creatures were still chasing him, giving no signs of letting up. Fudge was now covered in a variety of scratches, some of them quite deep, and a fair amount of bruising. An arrow aimed by an angry centaur stuck out of his left arm, bleeding profusely. He had lost his wand back ten or so minutes ago, foolishly dropping it as he avoided tripping over another tree root. The resounding 'snap' afterwards told him he needed to go back to Ollivanders as soon as possible. But worst of all, his bowler hat was utterly ruined.

Up ahead he could make out a clearing, where some sort of commotion was occurring. Oh thank Merlin! he exclaimed to himself. I'm going to be saved! However, this was not to be. On closer inspection, he realised why excited-but-bordering-on-psychotic yells were echoing around the area.

'No! Not Dolores! No!' Fudge screamed, running past another congregation of centaurs who had set up camp in the clearing. The centaurs, in retaliation of Umbridge's very tactless comments about their very prestigious race, had rigged up a spit over an open fire, upon which she was roasting quite merrily.

Well, she was wailing in agony, but the fire was having the time of its life, as were the centaurs, who were proceeding to dance around her using wild gestures, similar to those performed by the members of the 'Riverdance' troupe, the New Zealand National Rugby team, and/or people who have a lot of ants crawling over them, occasionally shooting glances of sweet revenge in Umbridge's direction. So it was a very interesting performance to watch, although it is not recommended by the Bureau of Wizarding Travel to attend these rituals for the high 'you will be eaten' factor. Umbridge gave another high-pitched squeal as Magorian, the undisputed leader of the centaurs, poured a sweet chili marinade over her.

A whiff of sweet chili spit-roasted Dolores wafted under Fudge's nose. His stomach grumbled in hunger. Gee, that does smell good ... No! No! I will not find roasted Dolores appetising!

The spit turned over once more as Magorian spilled the last of the marinade over her front. In the midst of the flames, Umbridge spotted Fudge running like mad from his pursuers. Grawp, it seemed, had quite an advantage in his height - he was almost able to catch Fudge with every three strides. However, our slippery friend managed to slide out of his grip each time. It was probably the sweat running mad down his overly large body; Grawp had to constantly wipe his hands on his tunic roaring, 'Slimy, Hermy!' and whenever he realised that Hermione was nowhere to be found, he would cry, 'Hagger! Where Hermy?' Hermione, upon remembering her last confrontation with Grawp, had wisely decided to sit this one out. However, she eagerly followed the chase with the aid of her Omnioculars, Ron and Harry sitting beside her on the top of the Astronomy Tower, doing likewise.

Anyhow, as soon as Umbridge spotted Fudge, who, in her honest opinion, ran like a girl, she squeaked in her poisonous, honey-glazed tones, 'Cornelius, save me!' Unfortunately (for her, in any case), the spit was turned over once more and so she was unable to see whether Fudge had heard her.

He had not. He had enough troubles of his own without worrying about his Senior-Undersecretary-cum-Hogwarts-High-Inquisitor-cum-Headmistress - like trying to stay alive, for instance.

As he ran onwards, perspiring enough to fill the Hogwarts lake five-fold, a faint Scottish voice whispered through the trees: If you do doubt your courage or your strength, come no further, for death awaits you all with nasty, big, pointy teeth. Whoever it was, he couldn't be talking about the little bunny rabbit that was chasing him, hopping along quite quickly on all four feet - it was, after all, just a harmless little bunny. Cute, really. Whatever this horrible creature was, though, he had no desire to encounter it. He had enough problems with large teeth as it was, he thought, shuddering as he heard giant pincers snapping behind him.

Looking down, wheezing heavily, he stared at the rabbit once more, noticing for the first time its rather nasty, big, pointy teeth. With a high-pitched squeal that was very out of character for him (he usually just shrieked and fainted), he kicked the rabbit out of the way just as it reared up to nip him on the ankles, and heard a loud roar of disapproval from the creatures behind him. What did they want him to do? Lie down and let it kill him?

Well, actually, yes; that was exactly what they wanted.

His robe billowed erratically behind him as he frantically ran through the trees; they had been torn to shreds as they snagged onto everything in sight, a prime example of the impracticality of robes. Suddenly, Fudge was blinded by a bright light. He stumbled, his vision clearing just before Grawp had another chance to grab hold of him. He couldn't believe his eyes. Sunlight! He broke into a wide grin, the terror that had been running rampant within him dissipated; he was going to survive! Only a few more feet! Foolishly, he glanced over his shoulder and stuck his tongue out at his angry pursuers, feeling giddy with elation at his soon-to-be-grasped freedom.

'Oof!'

He grunted, winded as he smacked into a very hard, very metal object. Turning around, he found himself face-to-face with a car. But this was no ordinary car; this was a Ford Anglia. A blue, feral Ford Anglia, to be precise, and its engine was revving in a way that did not seem very friendly at all.

Backing away slowly, Fudge noticed the procession of magical creatures had stopped a fair way back, amused animalian expressions clear on their faces, as though preparing to watch a very entertaining performance. The engine revved dangerously once more, and the car lunged forward unexpectedly.

Fudge didn't have a chance; all dreams of sunlight, freedom and the hat sale he was planning to go the next day fled from his mind (possibly to join the Fact in the Caribbean). The car zoomed after him as he tried to run away from it. The creatures cheered and shouted joyously, giving the car tremendous encouragement as it accelerated and braked alternatively, slowly cornering him.

Within moments it was all over. Fudge released a long, horrified scream as the car finally tired of playing its cat-and-mouse game, driving over the top of his portly body. The creatures cheered, and in the distance a muffled roar of applause sounded. Watching from a giant bewitched screen placed in the middle of the Quidditch pitch, the Hogwarts students were eagerly following the chase, screaming with delight as the Ford Anglia succeeded in running him over again. And again. And again. Soon, Fudge resembled a lumpy pancake, of which further details shall not be revealed. Just use your imagination. Think lime-green, black pinstripe and purple.

There was but one person within the crowd who was not joining in with the deafening shouts of enthusiasm. Ludo Bagman glowered at the screen, clearly unhappy with the result.

'Damn!' he hissed to himself, rising to leave the stands. 'I was so sure the rabbit would get him!'